Marshal Dillon and Me

I have always told actors to never underestimate the power they possess as a child’s hero. Many actors I worked with over the years have been a childhood hero due to a role in a TV series, or in a movie. No actor should ever dismiss what their performance can mean to a child.

When James Arness, Marshal Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke, passed away in 2011, I wrote this remembrance of just how much of an impact a hero can have on a child.

A brief moment, a handshake and a hello meant so much to this 5-year-old kid. The “stars” of today should take a lesson from the actions by James Arness.

In 1962, Gunsmoke was filmed at the KTLA studios on Sunset Blvd. It had originally been the Warner Bros. Studio (where they filmed Al Jolson’s The Jazz Singer) before they moved to Burbank. Paramount eventually bought the lot as an additional production facility, and by the mid-1950s, rented out stages to other productions.

Marshal Matt Dillon was my hero since I could remember. For a kid of five, the mature storylines didn’t register to me. All I cared about was seeing Matt Dillon beat the bad guy. An addition level of satisfaction for me came when I watched episodes with my dad (usually playing a bad guy). No other kid on my block could top my boast that Matt Dillon “killed” my dad.

Every Saturday night, I faithfully strapped on my Mattel Fanner 50 and gunbelt, my Matt Dillon badge and hat, to stand in front of the TV and imitate my hero’s famous showdown with the bad guy.

Imagine my thrill when, as a 5-year-old kid, I found myself working at KTLA doing a TV commercial and learned that Gunsmoke was filming a few stages away. As soon as I was finished with the commercial, I refused to leave until my mom took me over to the set so I could, hopefully, meet my hero.

The whole stage was dressed as the main street in Dodge City, most of it in shadows. They were filming inside the set of the Long Branch Saloon, where the lights burned brightly inside. I imagined Matt Dillon having a beer at the bar, waiting to see me. My mom and I sat down on two metal folding chairs across the dirt street, as I intently watched for any sign of my hero.

I heard him before I saw him. He came out of the saloon, and I said to myself, “Wow! It’s Matt!” My God, was he tall! Taller than any building in the world, I thought. Then I saw his marshal’s badge pinned on his shirt. It was just like the one my folks bought for me at Woolworth’s.

As he walked past us, all I could do was stare. My voice failed me. I wanted to yell hello to my hero, but I couldn’t. I was suddenly gripped with fear that he wouldn’t talk to me. As it turned out, James Arness walked past me several times, but all I could do was stare at him. Minutes dragged on. It was close to an hour, and I hadn’t said a word to him. Finally, my mom laid down the law: say hello next time he comes by, or we’re going home.

He walked past me again and got on the stage phone that was behind us. I could tell something was not pleasing him, as his voice grew louder. He hung up the phone with a slam, and started walking away from me.

My mom nudged me. It was now or never. I had to call him out. I had to say hello to my hero.

Matt Dillon was walking away from me, into the shadows of Dodge City. I jumped off my seat and followed a few steps behind him.

“Hello, Matt!” I said in a meek voice.

He turned around and looked down at me.

“Hello, pal!” he replied. He reached out his right hand to me. My hand disappeared in his. All I could do was smile. My hero called me his pal and shook my hand!

Just as quickly, Matt Dillon turned and strode down the street.

I never forgot what that brief moment meant to me.

When James Arness was signing his autobiography at the Autry Museum in Los Angeles many years ago, I had one more meeting with my hero. After waiting in line for him to sign my book, I told him about our meeting, doing my best to hold back the tears, and how much it meant to me.

He was visibly touched. He reached out his hand for mine. Smiling, he replied, “It was my pleasure.”